17 First Kisses Read online

  “Have you ever given one?” she asks.

  “No. And I never would!”

  “I would. I’m going to let Glenn touch my boobs tonight.”

  I gasp. “Over the shirt or under?” The nuances are very important here.

  She shrugs. “We’ll see.”

  We can’t bear to wait until midnight, so we tiptoe out of our tent around eleven, hop the fence in my backyard, then sneak along the other fences until we get to Glenn’s. Leaves and twigs crackle and snap under our feet as we creep up to the boys’ tent. I can see Glenn’s brown curls and Eric’s copper-colored shag through the triangle of light that makes up the tent’s doorway. They sit hunched over handheld video games with their backs toward us. All that zapping and beeping covers the sound of our approach. At the last second, Amberly and I rush the sides of the tent and pound against them with our fists.

  Swearing fills the tent and the boys stumble out. We exchange awkward hi’s all around.

  “So, we just wanted to give you these,” says Amberly.

  “We better go in case my parents check on us.”

  We hand them the notes before scurrying back into the woods.

  Ten minutes later, the boys are at the door of our tent with notes of their own. We grow braver and braver with every note swap. We stray farther, stay longer. We don’t know this is practice for the nights we’ll sneak out Amberly’s window and steal her mom’s beat-up Volkswagen for a joyride. Amberly gets bored with writing and wants action. So at the bottom of the next note she scrawls, P.S.—Meet us behind Claire’s dad’s shed at 12:07.

  “But it’s twelve o’clock right now,” I say.

  “Exactly. We better hurry.”

  We tear through the woods to the boys’ campout, hopping fences and tripping over tree roots in the moonlight. When we reach their tent, we chuck the notes inside, giggling, and run away. We don’t stop until we’re back in my yard, where we lean against the shed and wait, panting and whispering.

  My heart races—from the run and because of what I hope will happen next. After a few minutes, we hear leaves rustling by the fence. Amberly squeezes my wrist and grins.

  “Claire?” Eric’s whisper winds through the trees.

  “We’re over here,” I say back.

  Eric and Glenn start to take shape in front of us.

  “Hey, girls,” says Glenn. “What’s the urgent meeting about?”

  “Come inside the shed with me, and I’ll show you,” Amberly says in the low, sexy voice she uses in front of boys. “See you guys.”

  She winks at Eric and me and drags Glenn through the door into the shed. I’m glad it’s dark tonight, because I can feel my cheeks turning bright pink, partly because of Amberly and partly because I am alone with Eric for the first time.

  “Hey.” I kick at the dirt with my Pumas.

  “Hey,” he says back.

  A giggle echoes inside the shed, so we walk farther into the backyard, and I lean against my pear tree. My parents do this thing where they plant a fruit tree each time they have a kid. A Shenandoah pear for me. A Belle of Georgia peach for Sarah. A Hollywood purple-leaf plum for Libby. I like to think our trees mean something. Peaches are fussy trees that require lots of care. Pears are easy to grow. Strong and resilient.

  Eric takes a step closer. So close I can see his green eyes have a gold ring around the edges. This is it! I must look scared, because he says, “I won’t kiss you if you don’t want me to.”

  Isn’t he the sweetest? “I don’t mind,” I say.

  I know, I know, I’m dying for him to kiss me, but I’m trying to play it cool, okay? Apparently that was all the encouragement he needed, because before I can blink, we’re kissing. And it is. The. Best. Kiss. Ever. It’s my first kiss with any feelings behind it. And now all the anticipation leading up to this moment and all my feelings for Eric flow through our open mouths like it’s some kind of emotional energy transfer. It’s a rush that spreads to the tips of my toes. After that first kiss, we kiss again and again, each time creating another jolt of magical energy. They say people in France call French kisses soul kisses. I am certain by the way he is kissing me that Eric is kissing me with his whole soul.

  Later, when the boys are gone and we’re tucked into our sleeping bags, Amberly pounces on me. “How was it?”

  “Amazing.”

  “It was so hot making out in the shed. I mean, the saws and drills and axes hanging from the walls kind of made me feel like I was in a horror movie, but when Glenn pushed me on top of your dad’s workbench, it was awesome. For a second I thought he was gonna screw me, and then my life would be over—”

  “What?” I’m not ready to even think about doing anything but kissing. Okay, maybe I sometimes think about things, but I would never, ever do them. Plus, it sounds like she doesn’t think she has a choice in the matter. “Do you want to have sex with him?”

  “No.”

  “Well. Then, why would you? I mean, you don’t have to.”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m worried he’ll break up with me if I don’t. I feel like I have to do stuff with boys or they’ll leave me . . . but they always end up leaving me anyway.”

  She doesn’t add like my dad, but I know we’re both thinking it.

  Amberly shrugs. “So, how were things with Eric?”

  I lie back against my pillow and gaze dreamily at the purple ceiling fan.

  “I think I might love him.”

  I’m addicted to kissing. It’s all I want to do—every second I’m with him. And when I’m not, it’s all I can think about until the next time we’re together. The average person spends 20,160 minutes of their lifetime kissing, and I swear Eric and I are trying to squeeze all those minutes into a few weeks. We try lots of Amberly’s suggestions. Now that the first kiss is out of the way, I’m not particular. We even find a few places of our own.

  “Amberly, you have to try the stairs that lead down to the gym,” I say, as soon as I squeeze into a chair beside her at lunch. “No one is ever there if you get a hall pass at the same time and meet up.”

  “Score. Maybe I’ll take Glenn there this afternoon.”

  Megan rolls her eyes when she thinks I can’t see. She and Britney don’t have boyfriends right now.

  “Can we puh-lease talk about something else besides kissing?” she asks.

  Jealous.

  “Isn’t he your first boyfriend?” Britney looks sideways at Megan. They’ve been thick as thieves since I started going out with Eric.

  I pretend not to notice her tone. She’s been nice to me ever since I officially became a Crownie, but every now and then a sharpness slips into her voice. “Yeah. He’s great. I’m so lucky we found each other. He’s, like, the perfect guy.”

  Megan sighs and pokes at her salad.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  She doesn’t look fine. Maybe she’s really bummed about not having a boyfriend right now. I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with Eric—she’s always seemed so okay with him being my boyfriend. Or maybe she’s been fighting with her parents about school again. Bs are unacceptable in the McQueen family.

  Toward the end of lunch, Eric stops by our table and gives me a back rub. My chewing slows until I’m holding a Tater Tot almost stationary between my back molars. I totally can’t eat while he’s touching me.

  “How’s it going?” he asks Megan.

  “Good. Everything is really awesome.”

  She smiles at him, and they talk about how his big brother went to the carnival last night.

  After school, Britney and I hang out at Megan’s house because Britney is spending the night with her. Megan is back to normal—for a while.

  “We have to ride the Ferris wheel when we go to the carnival tonight,” says Britney.

  “Oh! You guys are going to the carnival. That’s so cool. I want to go.”

  Megan raises her eyebrows at Britney.

  “Do you want to go all fo
ur of us?” I ask.

  Megan picks nonexistent lint off her lavender bedspread. “Um. Let me go ask my mom.”

  She shuffles to the door and leaves the room as slowly as humanly possible.

  “I’m sure she’ll say yes,” I tell Britney. “This’ll be awesome.”

  The carnival is one of those caravan ones that come to town every year with dilapidated rides held together by paper clips and a prayer. Everyone knows someone whose cousin’s friend’s nephew died in a tragic accident on one. And there are weird things like pig races and stands selling cotton candy and funnel cakes. I can almost taste the powdered sugar and fried batter.

  Megan’s door opens again, but she just stands there like she doesn’t want to enter the room. “Um. My mom says I can only have one friend come to the carnival with me and spend the night. So, I guess it’ll just be me and B.”

  She says all this with her eyes fixed somewhere around my chin. A tense and awkward silence follows.

  “Oh. Um, okay.”

  I think it’s weird for her mom to make such an arbitrary decision—plus, I thought she liked me. I think it’s weird that Megan is sitting on her bed looking guilty and uncomfortable instead of storming around the room calling her mom a controlling witch. I think it’s weird that this all feels very personal in a way I can’t pinpoint.

  “Well, see you guys later,” I say. “Have fun tonight.”

  Megan still can’t seem to look me in the eye. “We will,” she says quietly.

  I trudge home with the nagging feeling I’ve missed something important.

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  Chapter

  7

  I wake up the Saturday after the football game with my stomach in knots because I know I should ask my mom about senior pictures today. It really is a great idea. Quite possibly the Idea. Our only shot. I pad down the hallway to her bedroom. She’s probably not awake yet, though. I should eat breakfast first. Yeah, I’ll cook pancakes for Libby and me. Then I’ll talk to Mama.

  Libby and I spend most of the morning making chocolate-chip pancakes, flipping them on the griddle as soon as bubbles pop up around the edges and drawing happy faces with whipped cream and extra chocolate chips. We make way too many and give my dad the rejects. Afterward, I clean the kitchen from floor to ceiling. And then, of course, I have to tidy up my room as well, and paint my toenails, and finish a paper that isn’t due until next week.

  I finally enter my mom’s bedroom at 2:00 p.m. She’s still in bed. Not promising. I tie open the thick curtains, and light floods the room like an unwelcome intruder, highlighting Mama’s tangled brown hair and the half moons dark as bruises under each eye.

  “What are you doing?” She throws an arm over her face.

  “I, um, I wanted to spend some time with you.”

  “Today is a bad day. I’m not feeling well.”

  “Oh.”

  Talking to my mom is not going to happen today. On bad days, food goes uneaten, clothes go unchanged, and promises go unkept. I hover by her bed for a few more seconds, but then I chicken out and creep down to the basement, where her studio used to be. Still is, I guess. Her equipment is still there—set up, untouched, and covered in a thick layer of dust.

  When I give everything an initial wiping with a rag, dust particles fill the air in nose-tickling, sneeze-producing puffs. I sweep the painted cement floor of its dirt, fuzz, and the occasional desiccated insect carcass. Then I start in on the walls. They’re covered in photographs of other people’s babies: chubby babies, teeny babies, babies that are smiling and jolly, and babies that are crying and red-faced. It’s no wonder she could never come back down here. I wipe down each one, wrap it in newspaper, hide them by the stack in cardboard boxes, and then hide the boxes.

  On Sunday, I know I have to try again. I lean against the wall outside my parents’ bedroom with my palms pressed against my eyes. “You can do this. You can do this. You can do this,” I whisper to myself. I try not to think about how the next few minutes could change our lives, because if I do I’ll completely lose it. One day. One goal. Get Mama to take pictures.

  It’s 10:00 a.m. The covers are still pulled tight around her head, but that’s normal. My dad’s side of the bed is smooth and pristine—he usually ends up falling asleep on the couch in his office. When my eyes adjust to the darkness, I weave through the room and peel back the comforter.

  “Mama?”

  “Mmm-hmm . . .” She tries to pull the comforter back over her head, so I sit on it.

  “It’s ten o’clock. How about you get up and have some breakfast? I’ll make you something.”

  “Not right now, sweetie. Maybe in a little while.”

  She rolls away from me, but I don’t move.

  “Everyone’s getting their senior pictures made at Palmer’s. But they look terrible. And Megan and I, we were thinking, maybe you could take some pictures.”

  “Take pictures?” She turns to me, surprised. “But I haven’t done that in years. And I never took senior pictures anyway.”

  “That’s okay,” I say quickly. “Megan could come over, and you could just try it. This afternoon?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I can see her slipping away. But I won’t let it happen again. I grip the comforter in clenched fists and take a deep breath. In a house where people don’t talk about things, I am about to drop a bomb. “Please, Mama, we . . . we need you. I know losing Baby Timothy was the most horrible thing that’s ever happened to you, but Libby and I are still here, and we need you to be our mom. I want you to be you again. I thought if you took pictures, it would help.”

  Mama’s eyes grow wide. She hugs her arms across her chest as if she’s trying to protect herself.

  “Claire, I—”

  “Please.” My voice shakes with my desperation. It shuts down whatever excuse was forming in her mind.

  “I guess I could think about it,” she says slowly. But I feel like she’s just saying it to make me feel better. Or so I’ll stop talking about it. “Not today, though. I’m too tired.”

  I know what that means. That means never. I have to make this happen now.

  “You can’t back out. She’s already coming over.”

  “She is?” Mama always did feel the need to impress Megan, and I can see her wavering.

  “Yes.” It’s a lie, but I can make it true with a thirty-second phone call.

  She gets in the shower, and I call Megan (that is, I squeal into the phone about how excited I am that my mom is going to take pictures again). Megan squeals back and promises to come over in a couple hours. I help my mom put on her makeup. Then we head down to her studio, where I help her get her equipment set up. Her cheeks turn pink from the exertion, and I can’t remember the last time I saw her look so healthy.

  We’re just setting up an area with a backdrop for formal pictures when Megan appears with several outfit choices draped over her arm. She thrusts an envelope at my mother.

  “Look how awful these are, Miss Lily. You have to help me.”

  As my mom flips through the pictures, her nostrils flare the tiniest bit, and I start to hope. She shifts from foot to foot, hesitating, but the bad pictures are taunting her, and she can’t not fix them. She can’t say no. I am in love with those bad pictures.

  Mama takes the formal pictures of Megan first. I act as her assistant, making minute changes to the lighting, adjusting the binder clips on the black drape wrapped around Megan’s midsection. I can’t believe the metamorphosis taking place in my mom. With each passing minute, she becomes more sure of herself. The intensity seeps back into her eyes.

  It’s working! I can’t even process all the emotions I’m feeling, and as a result I teeter somewhere between happy tears and giddy laughter. On the inside, that is. On the outside I am calm and serene, because the last thing I want is to ruin today with s
ome stupid emotional outburst. But everything goes fine.

  Over the next few days, I find Mama at her computer every now and then, editing the photos with a small smile on her face. Then she spends two days in a row in bed, and I’m certain that’s it. Our photography rehabilitation plan was a failure, and she’s lost for good. But the very next day, when I mention doing some casual shots with Megan, a sigh in my voice, she actually wants to. Just like that.

  We try some pictures of Megan at school, posed in her cheerleading uniform on the bleachers and by the goalpost. We try some on the swing set in Megan’s backyard. The pictures are all obnoxiously beautiful because they’re of Megan, but something is missing. Mama sees it too, and she’s fired up by the challenge.

  “What’s your favorite thing to do in the whole world?” she asks Megan.

  “Cook,” Megan answers instantly.

  “Can I take some pictures of you cooking?”

  “Sure. I have to make cupcakes for the cheerleading squad’s bake sale tomorrow. Would that work?”

  Fifteen minutes later we’re in Megan’s kitchen, Mama snapping photo after photo while Megan whips up cupcake batter and icing—from scratch, of course. No Duncan Hines for this girl. Mrs. McQueen enters the kitchen as Megan eases a rack of cup-cakes from the oven. As usual, Megan’s mom has on zero makeup, and her unruly blond hair is held in place with a pencil.

  “Mmm. What is that smell?”

  “Cupcakes. You want one?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Megan ices a cupcake and hands it over. “You have to eat it fast, though. They’re still warm enough to melt the icing.”

  Her mom peels back the paper and takes a big bite. “This is delicious.” She finally notices my mom and the camera. “What are you guys doing?”

  “Miss Lily’s taking my senior pictures. Because, you know, the first batch was so bad.”

  “Oh, right. That’s great.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn’t make a big deal about it.

  “Hey, that reminds me. We need to work on your college applications this weekend. Come find me in a couple hours so I can read your essays, okay?”